


HotLock Week 2020

by Demi_Idiot



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Deadlock is an ass, Drug Use, Kinda, M/M, Mentions of Nyon, Pining, Siphoning, Snuggling, Suggestive, character exploration, fangs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27494239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demi_Idiot/pseuds/Demi_Idiot
Summary: Short works based on the prompts for HotLock week that may or may not be connected or in order. AKA my exploration of this particular ship.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Hot Rod, Drift | Deadlock/Rodimus | Rodimus Prime
Comments: 9
Kudos: 58
Collections: HotterLock Week 2020





	1. Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> HotLock isn't my usual or preferred ship, but there's something about the dynamic that tickles the right side of my brain from time to time. This is also a good writing challenge for my rusty muse.

Hot Rod was frozen where he lay, vents shallow and rapid as a heavier frame pinned him down. The hot mouth on his neck sent an undeniable thrill through his systems, but the points of razor-sharp denta whispering over unprotected components kept him very, very still. Deadlock was fully capable of tearing his throat to shreds with those fangs, Hot Rod had no doubt of that. Nothing about the Decepticon was for show. He reeked of danger and death, and yet…

Hot Rod’s mouth was so very dry, but the recent memory of his throat bobbing against those points kept him from swallowing again. This was insanity - Hot Rod had no assurance that Deadlock wouldn’t kill him, but there was something unspoken and eerily knowing in the ruby red gaze that had coaxed him into the shadows. Down here it was easier to ignore the war no one could seem to really win, and when Deadlock’s fangs finally found purchase against one of Hot Rod’s main lines there was nothing else worth thinking about.

His denta were so sharp that the careful puncture hurt less than the burn of energon slipping free, but both were lost to the slick, hot glide of a glossa. Hot Rod’s vents stalled all together as his frame arched even as clawed hands tightened their grip to keep him in place. It had been so long since he’d done something other than fight, so long since he’d felt anything other than exhaustion, pain, and battle-fever. 

He felt  _ alive _ .

Was that what this was about? Two mechs grasping for something other than death no matter how fragged up the alternative was?

Two mechs who might be more alike than they would admit?

No one outside of Intel really knew where Deadlock had come from or how he’d secured his place in the Conclave. The most popular and likely story was he’d been a street mech with no use in the Functionalist machine, a Disposable that had embraced Megatron’s cause and promise of change.

Hot Rod knew a few things about being disposable.

He also knew that when this moment was over they’d go back to being on opposite sides of a millenia-long war and, if push came to shove, the odds of Deadlock blowing his helm off was still very high. For now though, Hot Rod was willing to let some of the tension bleed from his frame and feel Deadlock’s grip ease. He even let his helm tilt back further, just to hear the other’s engine purr in approval. Under all that armor Deadlock was still a speedster, just like Hot Rod.

Both of them were also fragging  _ insane _ , but as Deadlock's glossa continued to caress the small puncture, Hot Rod decided he really didn't care.


	2. Tension

It wasn’t the first time his gun sights had found their place between a pair of blue optics, but it was the first time he’d ever paused pulling the trigger. Deadlock frowned, both at himself and the brightly colored Autobot frozen in a crouch before him. The moment seemed to drag out forever before said Autobot licked nervously at his lips.

“Well?”

Deadlock’s scowl deepend and his grip on his weapon tightened, but he still couldn’t quite bring himself to pull the trigger. His processor helpfully produced a designation to go with the face - Hot Rod.

“Nyonian,” he stated.

Hot Rod looked as confused as he was cautious, his field clamped down. “What’s it to ya?”

Deadlock dropped the barrel of his gun from Hot Rod’s helm to point at the Autobrand in the center of his chassis. “For someone who had to blow up his home to stop a crazy Prime, don't you think you're on the wrong side of this war?"

_“Don’t,”_ Hot Rod spat, face darkening in defiance despite his lack of a weapon.

“Don’t what?”

“Pretend you know me.”

“I think I know another street mech when I see one, _Roddy.”_ Deadlock retorted, counting the flash in Hot Rod’s optics as a victory.

“Frag you!”

In a flash he was a step closer, the still-warm barrel under Hot Rod’s chin. “I think I can call you whatever I want.”

Despite the defensive flash of Hot Rod’s field, the only movement the smaller mech made was to grind his denta. Deadlock glanced down at his Autobrand again.

“You follow a Prime when the last one used your fellow Nyonians at batteries and the only way you could stop them was blowing the place to pit."

Something ugly flashed across Hot Rod’s face and through his field. “I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

Deadlock ignored him. “Megatron was the one to take Zeta's helm off. Megatron was the one to tear down the system that kept you on the streets. He would probably still take you, _if_ you have the bearings to change your mind.”

“Shut the frag up!"

Deadlock dropped the barrel of his gun and grabbed Hot Lock's jaw instead.

"Make me,"

The Decepticon was suddenly enveloped in a blast of frequency that scrambled both his optics and audials. He reeled back and pulled the trigger in the same beat, feeling the gun recoil in his hand but unable to see if he had hit anything. After what felt like an excruciatingly long time, his visual feed unscrambled itself and Hot Rod was nowhere to be seen. Ringing audials barely picked up the sound of an engine retreating at high speed.

Fragging flashbangs!

Static clung to the edges of Deadlock’s vision as he stalked away, cursing himself, Hot Rod, and everything else he could think of. He was going to make it his personal mission to terrorize that little slagger until he wished Deadlock had pulled the trigger sooner. No one got the best of him with a cheap trick like that.

No one!


	3. Fixation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was this one a bit rushed? Yes. Am I still managing to get something completed each day? Also yes.

It was getting difficult for Hot Rod to not look over his shoulder all the time now, even when he was in places Deadlock certainly was not. The crazy ‘Con was stalking him from battlefield to battlefield and campaign to campaign, and he was making it look disturbingly easy. Even when Hot Rod had caved and gone to Intel, they couldn’t come up with a logical answer either. Despite the fact that Deadlock was clearly hunting, Autobot forces were spread so thin Command couldn’t pull Hot Rod from the field or even assign him some kind of protection.

“Keep us advised of his movements,” they told him, “this could give us insight into how much freedom Megatron gives to his elites.”

Hot Rod was quite sure that insight was going to come at the cost of his red aft.

* * *

“I’m sorry Rod, we don’t have anyone else who can run the gauntlet. Cliffjumper’s out of commission per Ratchet’s orders and Prowl has Bumblebee occupied. I even tried getting the twins, but they’re on the other side of the planet.”

Hot Rod could almost feel sniper sights on the back of his helm. “And I don’t suppose having a slagged off ‘Con on my aft is a good excuse.”

Hound cringed. “I’ve tried everything else, I swear, but I can’t put Prowl off anymore.”

All the air escaped Hot Rod’s vents in a heavy sigh. No one could tell Prowl no for long, and he knew Hound would never send him out without exhausting every available option. 

“Fine, but I want the best map you have  _ and _ an extra gun.”

The ‘gauntlet’ in question was a bombed out urban area that had long been abandoned. It was also the most direct route for a possible supply line and, as rumor would have it, not on Megatron’s radar. There was a lot of area to cover that would take Hot Rod a long, long ways away from their unofficial base before he could turn back. Even the map and extra gun Hound had scrounged up didn’t make him feel better. 

Hot Rod started off early the next cycle, but by midday he wasn’t as far as he should have been. He’d been either skirting the open areas or circumventing them all together, even if that meant going out of his way to do it. Exposure of any kind made his plating crawl, but even then he wasn’t stupid enough to assume Deadlock wouldn’t make an appearance at some point. With the current state of the war, any mech with the patience and time could stalk just about any Autobot they chose. Troop movements kept them on the radar, supply runs made them predictable, and missions like this left scouts like Hot Rod vulnerable. 

He had nearly reached the turn around point when his fears were confirmed: a flash of movement in his peripheral, a pointed spaulder disappearing into the rubble’s silhouette. Hot Rod’s spark sank, only for a flash of anger to follow a moment later. Frag this, frag Deadlock, he was done running! If the ‘Con wanted a piece of him so bad, he was going to have to work to get it. 

The sun was starting to go down, but the heat from the day would remain in the terrain for most of the night, camouflaging Hot Rod’s infrared signature. It wasn’t much, and he didn’t have high hopes he could hold his own in a fight, but even if his spoiler did end up on somebody’s wall at least he’d be going out on his own terms.

Hot Rod found a pocket of cover that hid him almost completely from view and made his frame heat indistinguishable from the rest of the area, so he settled in and waited. The sun dipped down behind the horizon, the stars started to come out, and still he waited. Finally, in the dead of night, the sound of quiet footsteps reached his audials and sent his spark into his throat. Hot Rod gripped his weapon tighter, trying to pinpoint exactly which direction the other mech was coming from.

Deadlock made his appearance from the left, his movements freakishly quiet despite all his bulk and biolights so dim they were almost impossible to see. 

“I know you’re here Autobot. Why don’t you come out and play?”

The crooning taunt sent shivers down Hot Rod’s spine, but he stepped out and charged his weapon at the same time, aiming at the center of the black mass that was Deadlock.

“I don’t play with ‘Cons.”

Red optics powered back up to pin Hot Rod where he stood. “I was wondering when you’d stop running Roddy. Cowardice doesn’t suit you.”

The butt of the weapon creaked in Hot Rod’s hand as all his frustration abruptly came to a head.

“What do you fragging want?!”

A smirk curled Deadlock’s lips as he started to approach, seemingly unconcerned about the gun pointed at him. It belatedly occured to Hot Rod that he’d seen footage of Deadlock taking hits from much bigger weapons and charging on like they were nothing. If he wanted even a semi effective shot he’d have to aim for the face, but by the time his processor came to that realization, Deadlock was already in his space and had an iron grip on the gun as he pointed it away. Hot Rod was backed up against a wall, air stolen from his vents as another clawed hand rose to cradle his face and the answer to his question was whispered against his mouth before their lips were sealed together.

_ “You.” _


	4. Brand

Deadlock often wondered what would happen when the Decepticons won the war. Crushing the Autobots was the only way to ensure that Functionalism never came to power ever again; Megatron was sure of it. So many in their ranks were mecha who had benefited from the corrupt system, even Optimus Prime had been an Enforcer of said system before the Matrix got him. The irony was so bitter Deadlock could almost taste it.

He’d spent many nights seething instead of recharging, thinking about the life so many had been forged into and then denied him all because he wasn’t one of them. Megatron had given him the chance no one else would, and in return he’d allowed them to take the very metal of his spark chamber to make the badge he now wore for all to see. Deadlock had given his loyalty and his life to defend what that badge stood for, it gave him the power to crush anyone who stood in their way.

The Autobots had also fashioned themselves a badge and made their stand behind their Prime as “defenders of freedom”. How Deadlock hated that frowning red face - it seemed to encompass every look of disdain and judgement thrown his way. Any mech who wore the Autobrand given no quarter and no mercy.

All except one.

Until their first meeting on the battlefield Deadlock only knew Hot Rod by reputation. The Nyonian had destroyed his own home to stop the atrocities of a mad Prime, only to reject Megatron’s invitation to join the Decepticons and eventually went to the Autobots instead. Deadlock hadn’t put to much thought to a mech who had made a stupid decision until he’d gotten the drop on him.

The look on Hot Rod’s face would have been comical if it hadn’t been eerily reminiscent of the expression on Gasket’s face that had remained long after the Enforcer had pulled the trigger. The horrible moment of deja vu had stilled Deadlock’s finger and the result left him reeling from a flashbang while Hot Rod had raced to safety, and nothing was the same after that.

They collided again and again, and each time the mockery of that damned Autobrand dug deeper under Deadlock’s plating until he couldn’t stand it anymore. When he finally managed to get his hands on the smaller speedster, he’d slammed Hot Rod up against a wall and roared in his face. 

“Why?! Why didn’t you join us? We could have given you everything!”

Hot Rod caught him between the optics with a vicious headbutt. “You can’t bring my home back! You can’t undo what I did!”

Deadlock snarled around a broken nasal ridge as he struck at exposed vents. “We could have given you Zeta’s helm on a platter! We could have brought them all down together!”

“How is that better?” Hot Rod wheezed. “How are  _ you _ better than them?”

One question shouldn’t have haunted Deadlock.

One demand shouldn’t have put a crack in his resolve.

In the dead of night, when recharge was so very far away, Hot Rod’s memory-voice seemed to take a life of its own. Deadlock would stare sightlessly at the ceiling, trying to drown out that voice with his latest hit of Syk while his fingers rubbed absently at his own badge until the paint wore off around the edges. Sometimes the drug only made the voice louder, leaving Deadlock trapped in his own processor with the whispers of a brightly colored Autobot wreathed in flame until sobriety washed them away. His thoughts were turning more and more to Gasket as well, and the knowledge that he wouldn’t like the mech Drift had become was its own slow burn of guilt and remorse.

Drift felt remorse, Deadlock did  _ not. _

However, as the war dragged on, Megatron’s drive for victory started spawning atrocities even Deadlock struggled to come to terms with. The MTO’s were the worst; mecha with the sole purpose of being weapons in a war that was supposed to liberate all from being slaves to a single function.

They were fighting to prevent tyranny, weren’t they?

All the while Hot Rod’s voice ate at the back of Deadlock’s processer, bright blue optics staring out of an impassive Autobot badge in his recharge even as he clutched at the Decepticon brand that defined him.

_ How are you better than them? _


	5. Temporary

It hurt. It hurt so much. Primus, how could a mech hurt this much and still live?

Shattered vents tried to pull in air that wasn’t there and the freezing temperatures of space grated at exposed and damaged components. Hot Rod’s vision flickered in and out, the glittering light of the Matrix exposing the ruined remains of his chassis when his vision did work. He’d been so close to victory, to finally proving himself, even Starscream hadn’t been able to stop him.

But Megatron had.

The warlord hadn’t hesitated, blowing Hot Rod’s torso to pieces and sending him sailing into the emptiness of space. Megatron hadn’t tried to reclaim the Matrix, leaving him to float aimlessly and die a very slow death. Hot Rod could feel his spark guttering in its chamber, but he could also feel the pull of the Matrix as it kept him from offlining permanently. 

Alone, abandoned, and unable to even find peace in death, Hot Rod sank into despair. A dry sob rattled in his throat even though he couldn’t hear it, and his optical cleanser had long since frozen in its lines. Deadlock floated through his processer as lucidity came and went, and it was supidly ironic that the last meaningful companionship he'd had was with a Decepticon.

Cross faction affairs weren't as rare as it seemed, there was just plenty of incentive not to get caught. Once Deadlock and Hot Rod had gotten over trying to kill each other, there had been a relief in falling into each other's arms and forgetting the pit they lived in, even for just a night. Their trysts had stopped once Deadlock had been assigned to Turmoil's command and Hot Rod had gone to Earth. 

Hot Rod hadn't been naive enough to think that their little interludes would turn into anything more than a quick frag here and there, the war continued on after all and they would go their separate ways soon or later. But here, in the void of space, he'd give anything to feel Deadlock's slightly bigger frame curled around his again. 

What more could this life give and take away? Why was every remotely good thing temporary? Hot Rod didn't care anymore if it was weakness, he wanted Deadlock back - he wanted to hear the growl of an engine slightly overtaxed by all the heavy armor, feel battle-grade claws stroking deftly over his plating. More than anything he wanted to look into those red optics and catch a glimpse of who Deadlock had once been.

_You don't wanna know the mech I used to be. He was a skiv, he was weak, and he's better off buried._

As his frame went into stasis with the Matrix still stubbornly buoying his spark, Hot Rod took what comfort he could in his memories until the darkness finally closed in and carried on and on.

Until it didn't.


	6. Chapter 6

Deadlock was quite familiar with just about every Autobot frontliner that functioned. He’d tangled with the Wreckers, traded blows with Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, and even encountered the Dinobots once or twice. He was also familiar with the bravado that usually came with those encounters and had often wondered if putting on that red badge automatically made the wearer think they were clever with one-liners. Deadlock was good at ignoring Bots who spewed hot air, until he ran into Hot Rod.

The scout had a mouth on him that wouldn’t quit, especially in a firefight. At first the usual barbs went in one audial and out the other, but as Hot Rod proved over and over to be particularly hard to bring down, it started to dig under Deadlock’s plating. For a frontliner scout Hot Rod only had the bare minimum of field upgrades, but the lack of ballistic protection meant he was fast, both in and out of alt-mode. His color scheme was also proving to be a bit of an insult; painted in vibrant reds and yellows Hot Rod was easy to spot, but fragging impossible to slow down.

It was getting to the point where just the sight of that flashy paintjob was enough to set Deadlock’s denta on edge because it invariably meant he was going to have to listen to whatever the lunatic could come up with. The current skirmish was proving to be no exception.

“Ha! Missed me missed me now you gotta kiss me!”

Deadlock’s snarl was lost in blaster fire as he depleted the remaining charge in his weapon, but Hot Rod’s slag-eating grin never wavered as he dodged every shot.

“That the best you got?”

Deadlock lunged forward but Hot Rod was already transforming and tearing away, his gold spoiler winking through the cloud of dust. The chase took them away from the battle, and Deadlock was pretty sure that had been the intention all along, but at the moment he couldn’t give a frag. Hot Rod stayed stubbornly ahead as they tore through the abandoned streets, his lighter frame flying over the damaged road while the debris and potholes rattled Deadlock to his struts. However, when the smaller of the two tried to make a turn on gravel his tires lost traction and he spun out, losing momentum. Deadlock crashed into him a moment later and both of them were sent tumbling.

Despite his reeling gyros, Deadlock managed to snatch Hot Rod midair and when they finally rolled to a stop, pinned the Autobot underneath him. Hot Rod blinked comically as the dust settled and then grinned again.

“Do I really have to grind your gears to get your attention anymore?”

Deadlock snarled. “You fragging idiot! One of these days that mouth of yours is gonna get you killed.”

“I can think of a few things I could do with my mouth, and I meant it when I said you had to kiss me.”

Every thought process in Deadlock’s processor ground to a halt and rerouted to other, not so helpful ideas. He dropped his frame onto his wayward speedster, taking the minor victory as Hot Rod grunted from the impact. 

“I could still wring your neck, don’t tempt me.”

Hot Rod rolled his optics. “Or you could, you know, kiss me while nobody’s looking for us.”

Deadlock grumbled but acquiesced, and when familiar hands started to map his frame he grabbed them and pinned them on either side of Hot Rod’s helm.

“Ah-ah, it’s my turn to drive you crazy.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit predictable considering the prompt, but after all the gritty character exploration I wanted to write something soft, even if it's short.

Speedsters always had a lot of energy and could go absolutely stir crazy if they couldn’t burn it off. Hot Rod wasn’t as notorious as Blurr to zip up and down hallways when he couldn’t get out, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t done it before. Luckily, today was one of those rare days where he could get outside and spin his wheels until he had to come back and refuel. 

This section of the city still had usable roads so he zoomed in big loops, drifting the corners where he could and tearing down the straightaways when he could. Primus, it felt so good to push as hard as he could until his surroundings were a blur and his engine was near redline. Hot Rod wasn’t surprised to hear another, familiar engine approaching a few hours into his run; Deadlock had a gift for pinning his location down after all. 

It didn’t take the Decepticon long to pull even with Hot Rod, and the race was on. For a short, blessed time the badges they wore could be forgotten and they tore up and down every usable road they could find. Deadlock proved faster on the straight runs, but Hot Rod could navigate sharp turns much easier. 

Finally, Hot Rod’s fuel level was low enough he needed to call it, but when he sent a ping he received a set of nearby coordinates instead of their usual farewell signal. Curious, he followed Deadlock to an abandoned building where he was presented with not one, but two cubes of midgrade once they’d both transformed. It made sense, Megatron wasn’t rationing fuel right now, not after he’d gotten his hands on one of the energon refinderies. Regardless of where it had come from, Hot Rod didn’t have any qualms in accepting free fuel and sucked down both cubes in a hurry.

Deadlock laughed, actually laughed. “You’d think the ‘Bots were starving you, hot stuff.”

Hot Rod was a little preoccupied getting an image capture of Deadlock’s face. “Hey now, we’re down a refinery, fuel’s been a little skinny lately.”

That just earned him a shrug as Deadlock fished out his own cube. “Prime needs to bulk up security then,”

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, and Hot Rod suddenly realized that the biggest rush of the day wasn’t the racing, it was the way Deadlock glanced at him out of the corner of his optics as he swallowed down the last of his fuel and the way his field curled out in promise. In a universe of uncertainty and death, even the brief stability of a partner and fuel was enough to get his spark racing and maybe spark the hope that maybe - just maybe - the future could be like this.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am officially out of braincells. To all those who have come this far, I thank you. This wasn't my best work, but it was great practice and I appreciate all of you who came along for the ride.   
> To MagicalSpaceDragon, thank you for kind and witty comments - next time I'll be able respond properly.

Drift was in a  mood.

Rodimus knew the other speedster well enough to tell when he wasn’t as well put together as he made it seem. He was quieter, more watchful, his optics bearing a dark look when he thought no one else was watching. Was he having trouble recharging again? Was someone giving him slag about his past? Regardless of what the cause was, navigating to the heart of it was always tricky.

_ ::Hey, you good?:: _

Drift twitched a bit as he received Rodimus’ comm, but he didn’t move from his position behind the helm.

**_::Yeah, I’m fine,::_ **

_ ::Uh huh,:: _

**_::Roddy, I am fine.::_ **

Rodimus mentally smacked himself, he didn’t even have to open his mouth to push too hard.  _ ::Sorry.:: _

Drift made a non-committal noise over the line.  **_::Look, I’ll call if I need something, ok?::_ **

Well, that was better than nothing.  _ ::Sure, just let me know.:: _

* * *

Rodimus received a ping much later after his bridge shift had ended, and he gave a quiet sigh of relief before sending and answering ping. Drift’s hab was on the same deck and it was well into the recharge cycle, so the walk was quick and uneventful. The hab door was unlocked and it was dark inside, the only light to be seen was coming from Drift’s biolights from where he was curled up on his berth. 

Rodimus stepped inside and powered down his own biolights as blue optics tracked his every movement. Drift scooted back against the wall to make room on the berth and once Rodimus was situated he was wiggling up against the other speedster. It took some work to navigate around their respective kibble, but finally they both settled with Drift’s face tucked in against Rodimus’ neck.

Their relationship was still as complicated as it had always been, but there was always a quiet solidarity that they could fall back on from time to time. It was more than being just ‘frag buddies’ but less than a proper courtship. When Rodimus’ recharge defrags were so vivid he could smell Nyon burning or someone went out of their way to remind Drift of who he had been, there was at least this small space in each other's arms where they could briefly forget the bad decisions and ugly past together. Sometimes they’d ‘face, but most of the time the peace and quiet was all they wanted.

“You okay?” Rodimus murmured. 

Drift sighed through his vents, warm air wafting over Rodimus’ plating. “I’m...better now. When’s your next shift?”

“Third cycle. Yours?”

“Second.”

They fell back into silence, and it didn’t take long for Drift’s venting to slow and even out as he slipped into recharge. Rodimus frowned to himself and made a mental note to make sure Drift went to see either Ratchet or First Aid about this not-recharging business; he couldn’t keep Magnus off Drift’s back forever if he kept dozing off while on duty. 

Rodimus relaxed into the padded slab and couldn’t help but think about how so many vorns ago their positions had been reversed; his smaller frame curled up against Deadlock’s, claws stroking over his spoiler when he shuddered out of a nightmare. He’d never imagined they’d both survive the war, and he wasn’t sure about how they were going to navigate peacetime either, but Rodimus supposed that tomorrow was tomorrow’s problem and they could figure it out.

Together.


End file.
